


Erose

by lastdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Therapy, Trauma, check the notes for better warnings, noncon due to sexpollen, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erose: (adj) having rough edges, as if gnawed away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erose

**Author's Note:**

> All I See reached 100 kudos! In honor of this momentous occasion, I pulled the drafted scraps of this thing together and threw a title on it. I was trying to make wordplay about an eros-rose and it turns out that erose is already a word! Moreover, it's a word that kind of fits! It kind of made my day. 
> 
> Here is a list of things you should know:
> 
> -So this is the story where sexpollen doesn't turn out to be daffodils and blowjobs for everyone involved. I was trying to realistic and I ended up being depressing (at least at the beginning). This probably says something about my personality. If you want to know exactly what sort of bad we're talking, I'll put that in the end notes.
> 
> -When I say therapy... I mean something that I call therapy but is more like Discussion and Advice Time With Dumbledore. Seriously, this guy is nobody's licensed therapist. What he is, however, is conducive to the arc I was trying to pull off. Feel free to not call him a therapist in your head.
> 
> -There is a reference to one of my favorite non-Hugo authors somewhere in this story, and I will love you forever if you can find it.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading and kudos-ing my other stories :) I hope this isn't too depressing to count as a reward.

Heat, so much heat, filling him up and overcoming him. He’s breathing hard and sweating and still he needs more, more, always more. The body under him is hot and wanting and it arches up hard against him, and he drives down into it. It feels so, so good, and yet it only throws gasoline on the fire inside of him. He needs more, he needs to go deeper, he needs to consume as much as he is being consumed from within. He feels so close to something, some precipice, and if he could just go a little further he would find—

Enjolras wakes up panting in a cold sweat. His fingers are trembling as he draws back the damp sheets. As he uncovers his legs, he sees the wetness spreading on the front of his boxers and his heart is thrown into overdrive.

He retches and nearly vomits as he claws his pants off fast enough to tear one of the seams, and then he sprints to the bathroom. His shower warms up slowly, and is still ice-cold when Enjolras practically dives in in his haste to scrub off the sweat and the— the— ejaculate. 

Under the spray of the water, they begin to slide from his skin, but they don’t go fast enough, could never go fast enough. Enjolras grasps at a pumice stone and scrapes it over every place that was so disgustingly slick when he woke up, under his arms and behind his knees and between his thighs and even over his penis. It hurts so badly to scrape the rough stone across his oversensitive flesh, but he doesn’t care. The pure, raw pain of it is infinitely better than the sick feeling of his nightmare. 

Abruptly, Enjolras becomes aware that he is sobbing. His fingers shake harder, and the pumice stone falls from his hand. 

He leans down to pick it up. As he bends, his weak knees give way at last and he collapses to the shower floor. The water is warming up now, becoming so hot that it sears his skin, but all he can do is lie curled in the fetal position and hope that the heat can burn the memory out of his body.

———

“How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been getting much sleep.”

“No, I haven’t. The dreams. I— will this ever go away?”

“Have you ever seen a river? Not a great big murky thing like the Seine. A proper, little river, the kind that rushes and babbles and makes the air smell like fresh water.”

“Yes. My family comes from the south, we used to go out to the country all the time.”

“Then you’ve seen the riverbeds, with their smooth, ovoid rocks. You can walk over them barefoot without worrying about a sudden corner digging into your foot.”

“Yes.”

“Rivers are powerful things. If you took out all those smooth rocks and filled in the riverbed with rocks shaped like urchin-shells, it’d hurt like hell to walk in that river. But if you came back in a few years, you’d find every last one of those rocks as soft as butter.”

“You’re saying my head is full of urchins?”

“Heh. Something like that. That path you’re walking on isn’t pleasant, but someday the sharp edges will wear down, and you’ll be able to walk without hurting at every step.”

“You really believe that? It’s really going to be okay?”

“It really is. Just have patience, and don’t be afraid to talk to me, or someone else trustworthy, when you need it. Can you do that?”

“I think I can.”

———

Enjolras is sitting at his desk, wrapped in a soft old robe and sipping sweet coffee while he checks his email. It’s an indulgence, all of it, the fluffy fabric on his skin, the cream and sugar in his drink, the comfort of working at home in his pajamas. It’s an indulgence, and he knows it, but he desperately wants to remember the time when he didn’t feel the need to climb out of his soiled skin. He can’t bring himself to regret anything that allows him to forget for a while, at least.

His inbox has maybe a dozen messages in it. Three of them he can delete immediately— he’s already in university, and yet other schools are still sending him emails ("It’s not too late to switch!" their subject lines say brightly). Five more are from social networking sites, and he deletes those too. The only reason he has them sent to his email at all is so that he’ll remember to actually log into twitter or instagram or whatever the kids are doing these days. Next is a note from his thesis advisor, glowing over some insight Enjolras had come up with recently. Enjolras has the highest respect for Professor Lamarque, and his praise makes Enjolras smile proudly.

The following three messages are from his friends. Grantaire’s is a winking face that looks impossibly smug, with an attached three-page annotated bibliography describing in great detail the wrongness of whatever Enjolras said the last time they spoke. It makes Enjolras feel equal parts frustrated and amazed, breathless at Grantaire’s blistering intelligence and endlessly annoyed at the ways he chooses to use it. It makes him want to sock Grantaire in the nose and then draw him close and kiss him and—

And nothing, because he can’t, he can’t, not anymore.

Combeferre’s message is next, detailing the preparations he’s made for their next awareness event. At the bottom are a couple of numbers he wants Enjolras to call to ensure support from other groups, so Enjolras closes the email. He’ll call later in the day, when people won’t get upset with him for phoning at an ungodly hour.

The twelfth message is also from Combeferre, stamped several minutes after the first, and it’s short, sweet, and stumping. “Are you alright?” is all it asks, but Enjolras stares at it for minutes without knowing what to say. There are a hundred answers to that question, and some of them are reassuring and some of them are true, and there is no overlap. He clicks reply and watches the new window spring up, ready for whatever he chooses to say, but nothing comes. So Enjolras leaves it there, only its edge showing behind his email window. He’ll come back to it later.

He’s about to open a new tab to check his twitter when another message appears with a ding. It’s not from anyone he knows, but it doesn’t look like spam. It looks more like it was misdirected; perhaps someone spelled an email address wrong. Enjolras knows, he knows he shouldn’t read other people’s mail, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

The only thing in the message is a video link, and Enjolras finds himself clicking it without really choosing to. The second the video loads, however, he knows he shouldn’t have.

He knows from the moment he sees the avenue, the familiar trees and street lamps and buildings.

He knows even before the camera pans unevenly over to the orgy stopping traffic.

But the video is still playing.

Dozens of people are out in the street, missing most or all of their clothing. They’re arranged in pairs and trios and groups of all numbers, taking up any horizontal surface they can find. The stopped cars are parked, drivers left to join the fray, headlights casting weak daytime beams over the people in the street.

One person was hit by a car that stopped too slowly, and his leg is bent at a sickening angle, but not even he has noticed it. Everyone's too busy fucking.

Enjolras feels bile rising in his throat and he gropes for the trash can under his desk. He finds it not a moment too soon. His throat burns and his mouth tastes so bad it makes him retch again.

But the video is still playing.

The camera slides over further, and there’s Enjolras, stripped like everyone else and fucking some man, some stranger whose name he still doesn’t know. Onscreen, the two of them look desperate, like they think they can climb inside each other and maybe it will ease the burning in their veins. Enjolras is thrusting so hard the guy underneath him is losing skin to the pavement, but neither of them seem to care. All they want is to reach orgasm, no matter how it happens.

The Enjolras in the video bites hard into the man’s shoulder and pulls out to come all over his stomach, and it doesn’t look like it’s the first time he has.

Enjolras finds the strength to close the window.

He’s crying hard, and his mouth is burning and his skin is crawling and he just needs to be gone, far away, needs to empty his stomach again and sob himself to sleep. 

The reply box is still open, and Enjolras sends only, “No.” Then he goes to sit in the shower, still in his pajamas, hoping that the heat can scour this memory out of him, out of his skin, out of his soul. 

Hours later, Enjolras is going numb under freezing water when Combeferre finds him.

———

“Two rivers diverged in a yellow wood…”

“And you walked in the one less traveled?”

“I walked in the larger one. I thought that a bigger flow would… smooth the riverbed faster.”

“Does it?”

“You know it does.”

“I’m glad it’s been better for you. But you wouldn’t be telling me this unless you’d stepped on something sharp.”

“It’s more like slipping. I lost my footing on a stone that was too smooth, and then I hit a sharp one.”

“What happened?”

“I wasn’t— very aware. During. I told you.”

“I remember.”

“After, I learned that— that some people were. Aware. That they had— filmed it. Cell phone cameras and— and tourists.”

“But surely…”

“They weren’t allowed to keep the video, of course. But it’s not like that’s ever stopped anyone before.”

“That’s an urchin indeed.”

“I just… I’ve never been so disgusted, so ashamed, and no one even knows because they’re just sending each other stills captioned ‘hot guys fucking.' I just want everyone to forget about it.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing for that but to wait.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“You’re asking for someone to hold your hand and carry you down the river, but that’s not what I’m here for. I can tell you which way to go, I can teach you how to look out for the sharp rocks— but I can’t step over them for you.”

“Pretty words.”

“True words.”

“I— you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just so frustrating, and I want it to go away, and it won’t.”

“It will. It’s only been a year, there’s still time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve still got three-quarters of your life to live. That’s a long time for a rock to stay sharp, in a river like this one.”

“You still think I’m going to be all right.”

“Yes, I do. Does it help?”

“A little.”

“Just keep walking, alright? Keep living your life, and don’t let this stop you.”

“I won’t."

——— 

“Hey,” Enjolras says as smoothly as he can, sidling up to Grantaire’s table. Grantaire puts down his bottle with a start and looks up with wide eyes.

“Hey,” he says, sounding briefly stunned. Then he recovers himself and his eyes turn sharp again. “Something you need, Adonis?”

“Dinner.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this place is something called a ‘cafe.’ That’s where you get food, on earth. It’s not quite nectar and ambrosia, but—“

“I meant dinner… out.” Enjolras can feel himself flushing and he rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “With you.”

“Ah, so the lord of light finds himself in need of someone with functioning taste buds?” Grantaire smirks. “If it’s a restaurant you’re after I’m happy to recommend.”

“No, I want you to eat with me. Together.”

“Like, a business meeting?” Grantaire tilts his head to the side and squints, like he’s trying to look through Enjolras. It makes Enjolras shift uncomfortably, and he has to shake his head before he flashes back to the last time he felt so vulnerable and exposed. “I’m still trying to recover from the last posters you had me doing for your merry men. And women. And gender-neutral Byron appreciator. And all of them are equally merry, before you decide I’m being sexist with my adjectives—"

“Like, a social meeting,” says Enjolras, and then wants to smack himself in the face because that’s not what he means at all. “A date kind of meeting.”

“Are you trying to make friends?” wonders Grantaire. His head is still cocked and his lips are pursed in a way that makes Enjolras want to make his point in a more physically demonstrative way. That urge is a little reassuring in and of itself, because it proves that Enjolras can still want it.

“Oh my god, R, I’m trying to ask you out,” he snaps.

“Oh,” says Grantaire in a small voice. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Grantaire repeats. He’s blinking rapidly, and his mouth stays open like he forgot to close it. “That’ll be a yes, then.”

——— 

Enjolras sits on his couch, staring at the green digital numbers on the clock. He counts sixty flashes of the dots, and then the seven becomes an eight, exactly when he expects it to.

He keeps counting flashes until eight becomes nine, and nine becomes zero. Five o’clock. Seventeen hundred hours.

At last, it’s no longer much too early to begin preparing for a date.

Enjolras lurches to his feet and walks to the bathroom, maneuvering himself into a shower. He wants the hot water, still wants the pure feeling of the burn, but it always leaves his pale skin flushed and scalded, and then Grantaire would see. That, more than the crawling feeling of his skin, is unbearable. He doesn’t want to ruin this with the damage he can’t seem to shake, even long after the fact.

So he showers with water that’s barely even warm, and he doesn’t look at his body as he runs the soap over himself. He doesn’t let himself scrub, either, because he can’t stop himself from taking off layers of skin sometimes. When Enjolras gets out of the shower, he pats himself dry with a fluffy hand towel because if he rubs he knows he’ll start scraping, and that’ll leave abrasions too. 

Sometimes the irony of his skin makes him cry, with its invisible marks of shame and its all-too-obvious reminders of how he tries to claw them away.

He covers his skin with the robe that feels like the past, so he won’t have to look at it or think about it. Then he goes to his room, and begins pulling open drawers. Courfeyrac had given a lot of dressing advice uninvited, and it plays in Enjolras’ head as he rummages through stacks of shirts and jeans. It affects his decisions, though not in the way Courfeyrac intended.

“You’ll want the pale blue button-down,” Courfeyrac had said, scrutinizing several of them splayed over his bed. “It brings out your eyes, and it makes your chest look positively lickable.” Somewhere behind him, Enjolras had shuddered at the thought of some stranger licking his body, and immediately discounted the pale blue shirt. He had considered burning it.

“And these jeans, of course. They’re so tight I don’t even know how you fit into them! If there was ever a pair of pants to make a man lose control, these are those.” Courfeyrac had smirked proudly, and Enjolras had given his most convincing smile. The minute Courfeyrac had gone out the front door, Enjolras had been on his knees in the bathroom, trying to hold down his lunch. That pair of jeans currently lay at the bottom of his kitchen trash can.

There is nothing Enjolras can do about his physical attractiveness— well, there is, but it’s the kind of thing that would mean serious words with his therapist— but there is something he can do about his image.

He chooses a looser white button-down, the most boring shirt he owns (as verified by Courfeyrac), and matches it with a looser pair of dark jeans. These are, in fact, loose enough to need a belt to cling to his skinny hips, but at least they won’t make him any more attractive than the absolutely has to be.

Then Enjolras goes back to the bathroom and brushes his teeth— gently, with a soft-bristled toothbrush he had bought especially for this kind of occasion. He doesn’t want Grantaire to ask why his gums are bleeding, because then he would have to explain about the taste he can’t get out of his mouth: half a stranger’s sweat, and half vomit.

Lastly, he attends to his hair. “Whoa, Enj, you look ravishing. Did you put actual product in your hair?” Courfeyrac had said once, rather drunk. Enjolras remembers it now, and pulls his hair up tightly into a bun, so that both shine and curl are negligible. 

When he’s finally done, Enjolras looks at himself in the full-length mirror. His clothes can barely be said to fit him, his hair is flat against his skull, and his face is nearly ashen with its natural pallor. He looks so boring—

Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief, and mentally thanks Courfeyrac for his unwitting help.

With that out of the way, he allows himself to think about Grantaire again, about the clever, quick-witted, surprisingly profound man who actually agreed to go out with him. He thinks of the sharp tongue and sharper mind, and he shivers with excitement. 

He doesn’t let himself think about the broad shoulders and strong fingers, because that’s simply not a thing he should do, not if he wants to go out soon.

By the time Grantaire comes to his door, Enjolras is positively buzzing with anticipation. It bursts into a nervous smile the instant the door swings open. The reaction apparently surprises Grantaire, but not in a bad way, because he smiles back broadly. 

“Hey,” says Enjolras.

“Hey,” Grantaire replies. He offers his arm in a strangely reassuring chivalrous fashion. “Shall we?”

Enjolras smiles and takes his arm in lieu of an answer. 

They don’t speak much on the way to the restaurant, which is so strange because it’s them and arguing is what they do— but maybe, Enjolras thinks, maybe it doesn’t always have to be. Maybe they can find some kind of middle ground, some neutral territory where they can be at peace together.

The prospect is exciting.

They’re nearly there when Enjolras looks up from his date to find that he recognizes a person halfway up the street, walking in their direction. He recognizes the man, knows where he’s from (where they’re both from) and he panics. What if he remembers? What if he tells—? Enjolras has pulled them both into an alley before he knows what he’s doing, and he clutches at Grantaire’s shoulder desperately as he breathes much too fast.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, looking up at him with tender, concerned eyes. “We don’t have to do this if you—“ Enjolras cuts him off with a frantic shake of his head. “Alright, then, what is it?”

“I— I—“ Enjolras wants to tell, desperately wants to keep from telling; he has no idea what he wants. He knows his eyes are too wide and filling with helpless, frightened tears, he knows his chest is rising and rising again without properly falling in between, he knows his fingers must be biting painfully into Grantaire’s shoulder, but he can’t make any of this into something coherent he can say.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. Let’s just breathe, okay? In with me, and out— shhh, you need to calm down. I’ve got you.” One of Grantaire’s hands comes up to Enjolras’ chest and he starts violently and almost tears away from the touch until he realizes that Grantaire is just trying to help him breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, but Grantaire just shakes his head and keeps counting out breaths. He keeps his hand gently over Enjolras’ heart and reminds him when he needs to breathe in and out.

After several minutes, he’s able to breathe on his own, and finally to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “This was supposed to be a nice night—“

“Don’t go there,” says Grantaire firmly. “Could-have-beens won’t help anyone.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras admits. At long last, he releases his grip on Grantaire’s shoulder. He frowns. “I probably left bruises. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened? It seemed like you were having a pretty bad panic attack, did I—“

Enjolras tries to stop himself, he really does, but a helpless laugh escapes his mouth before he can clamp it shut. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he says, mouth twisting wryly. “I ran all the way to Paris and I still can’t fucking escape.”

“Escape? Enjolras, what happened to you?”

——— 

“How have you been?”

“I’m… actually really well, lately.”

“That’s good to hear. Nothing sharp since our last session?”

“Not really. The dreams come and go, but I don’t panic at the mere mention of sex anymore.”

“And you can say the word out loud again.”

“I’ve been practicing. Just a little.”

“I don’t remember prescribing self-exposure therapy…”

“No, I know, I just… I thought it might help, and I think it has. I mean, I’m hardly ready for watching porn and picking up guys, and I don’t know if I ever will be, but it’s nice not to flinch at little things.”

“Well, I still can’t exactly recommend self-diagnosis, but for once the impatience of a patient seems to have done him some good. Though I notice that you still go out of your way to avoid flattering yourself physically. Has that been problematic lately?”

“I— yes, a little. I know intellectually that just because someone thinks I’m… hot… doesn’t mean they’re necessarily thinking about me like a piece of meat—“

“But it still feels that way?”

“Yeah.”

“And in the context of your boyfriend?”

“We haven’t actually gone out yet.”

“Full marks for evasion. If you don’t want to answer the question, I won’t press, but I think it’s important for you to think about how you’re thinking about him.”

“He’s… well, I told you about how he drinks, and sometimes when he does he says things…”

“About you?”

“Yes. That was how I knew he was… interested. But then he said— he said ‘He’s so beautiful.’ Talking about me.”

“Did that bother you?”

“The opposite, actually. It struck me because he calls people hot all the time, celebrities or waitresses or whoever, but that was the only time I’ve ever heard him call a person beautiful.”

“You liked it because it didn’t imply attraction.”

“I liked it because that’s how he talks about the works of Michelangelo and Rachmaninoff and Shakespeare. He admires them, and they move him… emotionally.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you’ve become demisexual?”

“Sexuality doesn’t change over time.”

“This isn’t over time, this is a result of a traumatic experience— I suppose my question is whether you think you are still capable of a sexual relationship without an emotional connection.”

“I— no. I think it would be difficult even with an emotional connection.”

“And do you have that emotional connection with your boyfriend?”

“I think so.”

“You trust him?”

“You think I should tell him. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s not fair to keep it from him, if you trust him and care for him.” 

“What if it… doesn’t go well?”

“Then it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot. I’m not here to lie to you; even smooth rocks hurt if people throw them at you. I won’t think less of you if you don’t want to put yourself in a position to get hurt again. But I also think that you’re a good judge of character. You wouldn’t trust him so much if he weren't trustworthy.”

“I’ll try. But you might be picking up some pieces next time I see you.”

“I’ll keep my glue handy. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“…”

“…”

“Please never say that again.”

“I’m doing my best to forget as we speak."

——— 

“Enjolras, what happened to you?”

“I saw someone I knew once, from… from my hometown,” Enjolras answers, taking a deep breath to keep his courage up. Grantaire’s face immediately darkens.

“I’ll go teach him a lesson right now if you want me to,” he says with complete seriousness.

“No, no, he was fine. One of those people you know lives down the street and goes to your school but you never really talk to. There was never anything like— what you’re thinking.” Enjolras’ life had actually been shockingly charmed, in retrospect. Even after he came out, his parents had been loving and supportive, his friends had more or less stuck by him, and his popularity at school had only dipped a little. His first real, significant problem was the one he still couldn’t get past, and part of him wonders if that's because he's never gotten used to hardships.

“You want to explain why the sight of him had you in a full-on panic attack, then?” Grantaire is clearly trying to control his tone, but the anger is still bleeding through.

“It’s not about the person, it’s about the place,” Enjolras says with a heavy sigh. He leans back against the wall, and then he says the name of his hometown, the place where everything had gone wrong.

“I don’t understand.”

“Almost two years ago, there was… an experiment. Genetic modification to make crop yields more abundant. It was supposed to make them flower more and sooner, and pollenate more effectively, but they didn’t know— they couldn’t, I’ve been told. It wasn’t their fault.”

“What wasn’t?” Grantaire looks like he's hanging on Enjolras’ every word, and suddenly Enjolras isn't sure if he can continue. He hangs his head and breathes hard for a few seconds, until he feels Grantaire’s hand on his arm, touching with heartbreaking softness. “You don’t have to, but please tell me.”

Enjolras meets Grantaire’s pleading eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Not here.”

“Alright,” answers Grantaire. He looks like he isn't sure whether he ought to touch Enjolras again, and Enjolras isn't sure whether he wants to be touched either, but he makes himself grab Grantaire’s arm in a parody of their earlier arrangement. He's sure his grip is too tight, but he's too busy working up the courage to finish his explanation to care.

Enjolras’ nerve lasts exactly as long as it takes to enter his apartment and collapse on the couch, and then he withdraws helplessly into himself. His skin is starting to itch warningly.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, taking a seat several inches away.

“I’ll be okay, I just— I’ve only ever told my therapist about this.” At the word therapist, Grantaire actually relaxes a little. Enjolras supposes Grantaire of all people would know the value of professional help.

“So. Genetically modified plants?”

“Yes. The whole thing was covered up afterwards, because it turned out that their pollen became a… powerful aphrodisiac. The day the flowers opened there was a strong wind, and it blew the pollen into town. Some people hardly noticed. Others of us…” Enjolras takes yet another deep breath, steeling himself. “Lost control.”

“Oh, Enjolras.” Grantaire reaches a hand out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder, gradually moving closer until they’re embracing properly. Enjolras is prepared to react badly to physical contact, but instead he finds himself relaxing into it. It’s warm, and soft, and so gently caring that it helps to settle the crawling under Enjolras’ skin. For the first time since he recognized the man walking toward them on the street, he doesn’t feel the urge to peel himself out of his body.

“Thank you,” Enjolras murmurs into his shoulder.

“What for?”

“It’s just… been a long time since anyone hugged me.” Enjolras can feel Grantaire pitying him, so he goes on, “It’s my fault, I fought off anyone who touched me for about a month, after.”

“It’s been two years, Enjolras, that’s what you said. Even if you were basically in rape recovery—“

“It wasn’t like— I mean, none of us consented. I did as much as was done to me.” Enjolras’ voice is trembling, but he makes himself explain. "It was public, there’s video floating around on the internet, and there are people who remember… somewhere in the world there are people who have seen me reduced to an animal.” Suddenly, Enjolras becomes aware that his whole body is shaking. The urge to sear his skin off in a hot shower is very familiar, but it’s weak enough to resist and he pushes it down. He doesn’t want to get like that, not in front of Grantaire.

“Is there anything I can do?” Grantaire asks, tightening his arms around Enjolras. Normally Grantaire is so hesitant about touching Enjolras even in the most innocent, friendly ways. He always glances up to see if the hand on his shoulder or the accidental brush against his hand is okay, as if he’s hyperaware of Enjolras’ movements, but he doesn’t even pause now. Enjolras thinks this says something about how utterly pathetic he himself must look in this moment, and the shame is only worse when he can’t bring himself to leave Grantaire’s arms.

“Just this,” he says. A little tension goes out of Grantaire’s body, and Enjolras feels his own responding in kind. He takes a moment to wonder at how physically in tune they are, even when Enjolras can’t be with him in the physical sense.

“Alright,” replies Grantaire. “I can do this for you.”

——— 

“I told him, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh?”

“He pulled me through a panic attack, and then he held me. He feels sorry for me.”

“I understand why people don’t want to be objects of pity, but I think we as a society go too far in that direction. Pity is practically a dirty word.”

“What’s your point?”

“That pity is a force that moves people to great good. In fact, having read transcripts of a few of your speeches, I would say that pity is one of your major motivators.”

“I don’t look down on the people I’m trying to help!”

“No, you don’t. It’s pretty common for people to link the idea of pity with that of condescension, but the actual definition of pity has nothing to do with feeling superior. It merely means feeling compassionate because others are in pain. It’s not so different to empathy. ‘So you had hot sex with a bunch of strangers. What’s the big deal?’”

“What?”

“That’s one possible response to your situation. It stings, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. I really don’t think, as an actual therapist, that you’re supposed to be—“

“Shh, wait for my point. It stings because it demonstrates a total lack of empathy. That’s what a response without pity would look like.”

“So you think he reacted well.”

“It sounds to me like your boyfriend feels pity for you, and that it makes him kind. Frankly, what you described is not the response I would have predicted from the man you depict as a ‘cynical drunk.’”

“That’s not all he is!”

“Precisely my point.”

“So you’re saying that pity is the magical third trait that makes him a good person?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t put words in my mouth; I’m hardly trying to quantify a third party’s character through secondhand accounts. What I’m saying is that whether or not you realize it, you appreciate the way he treated you as a result of his feeling of pity, and I think you’ll treat him better if you do realize it.”

“…”

“Pity makes people act better, and it makes them want to be better.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I think so. You mean that it was wrong for me to be upset because my boyfriend was trying to empathize with me. It’s… it’s hard to get past how I feel— felt— about pity, but I understand what you’re saying.”

“Well. I hear you’re in the habit of unlearning things society taught you.”

“He deserves that much."

———

To the surprise of no one but Enjolras, Enjolras is the one to instigate their first kiss.

In the time they’ve been dating, Enjolras has learned a lot about his boyfriend. For instance, he knows that when he’s in the middle of a project, Grantaire often can’t sleep for days at a time. He knows that Grantaire’s insomnia leads him to consume various substances that make sleeping just a little easier. He also knows that succumbing to a need for alcohol (or something harder) only makes Grantaire feel weak and ashamed when he wakes in the morning.

So Enjolras only takes the logical step, and inserts himself into that process, right between the insomnia and the substance abuse.

It’s about one in the morning when he heads over to Grantaire’s flat, thermos in hand. For a moment he’s not sure if he was right in thinking that Grantaire would be awake this late, but then Grantaire appears silhouetted in the doorframe and Enjolras relaxes. 

“Who could that be at this hour?” Grantaire murmurs with a tired smirk.

“Your wonderful boyfriend, of course,” Enjolras replies without missing a beat. “Come on and lie down on the couch. I have every intention of taking care of you for a little while.”

Grantaire looks, fleetingly, like there’s nothing in the world he’d enjoy more, but then he schools his expression into something concerned. “Don’t you need to sleep?” he asks. 

“No more than you do,” Enjolras replies, steadfast. He’s been good, lately, or at least mostly good, and he doesn’t want to let this veer off into his own issues. He showed up strictly to help with Grantaire’s, and he refuses to be distracted. Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, but Enjolras just puts a finger over his lips and shushes him. “Don’t tell me you’re painting, either, because I know that expression and it says ‘I’ve been staring at a canvas for at least an hour pretending I’m still painting.’ Tell me I’m wrong.”

“It wasn’t an hour,” Grantaire protests, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “It was nearly an hour.”

“Yes, I definitely believe you,” returns Enjolras, and then manhandles his boyfriend onto the couch. It’s big, and soft, and more often slept on than Grantaire’s actual bed. Grantaire immediately curls up into a loose fetal position, like an oversized scruffy kitten. Enjolras takes the space in front of him, between his knees and elbows.

“This is nice,” Grantaire says. It’s probably meant to sound sarcastic, but it doesn’t. Enjolras smiles down at him.

“Open up,” Enjolras instructs, and then perpetuates the kitten metaphor by giving Grantaire the thermos full of warm milk. The small opening means he can drink from it lying down, and Enjolras takes full advantage of this fact. He strokes Grantaire’s hair as he coaxes him to drink.

Sitting here, gently taking care of Grantaire as his body grows heavy with exhaustion finally hitting home, Enjolras’ heart feels so full it might burst. Grantaire’s eyes are glassy when he opens them to wonder why Enjolras took the thermos away, and then startled when he finds Enjolras’ mouth gently pressed to his. 

“Enjolras?”

“I love you,” says Enjolras warmly. It isn’t the first time he’s said it, but it still makes Grantaire smile like the first day of spring.

“Cinnamon,” Grantaire replies, a little dreamily. He’s not long for the land of the waking, not with a gentle touch at the nape of his neck and warm, fatty milk in his stomach. The presence of the man he loves probably doesn’t hurt either. It takes Enjolras several moments to realize he’s being thanked for adding the spice to Grantaire’s drink— something Grantaire loves because it tastes good but isn’t very sweet.

“You’re welcome, love. Now get some sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Enjolras is really too big to fit into the space left in front of Grantaire, but he squeezes himself into it anyway. It’s close, very close, but the scrape of his clothes over his skin is reassuring, and he’s able to fall asleep only a few minutes after Grantaire drifts off.

——— 

Enjolras wakes up to find Grantaire still pressed along his back, his body warm and his strong arms comforting. It’s a lot of contact, but Enjolras knows he can do this, so he just shifts and relaxes into it. At least, he tries to, until he feels—

Grantaire is hard.

Instantly his mind flies into overdrive. It’s not Grantaire’s fault, he knows, and it probably has more to do with the increase of circulation during sleep than any real arousal. Whatever the reason, Grantaire’s asleep and can’t control anything his body does then. Enjolras can’t blame him for what’s happening.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t freaking out, though. Because at some level all his mind knows is that this is sex, and that sex is something that was once repulsive and deeply shameful. 

Enjolras hyperventilates and flails and suddenly finds himself on the floor with pain in his hip and elbow. He knows his eyes are too wide, probably filling with tears, and helpless sounds of distress are leaving his mouth. He doesn’t want to be like this, especially not here in front of Grantaire, so he curls up and stuffs the back of one hand into his mouth to stifle the sounds, uses the other to wipe his eyes. After a minute, he gets himself back under control and is able to relax. He looks up and finds that Grantaire is still sleeping.

It occurs to him suddenly that he can under no circumstances allow Grantaire to find out that his involuntary sexual advance nearly threw Enjolras into a panic attack.

Because Enjolras isn’t the only one with physical contact issues. He may have trouble being touched, but Grantaire— Grantaire who has always had such a poor opinion of himself and his body— he needs to be touched, to prove that he is worthy of being touched. His heart craves a physical assurance that his friends love him. That his boyfriend loves him. 

It must hurt so badly to know that his boyfriend can barely stand to touch him, Enjolras realizes. With the same ferocity that drives his belief in any of his causes, he suddenly knows that he has to fix it. 

So he climbs back onto the couch, wedges himself back into the too-small space in front of Grantaire, and gently presses his back along Grantaire’s front. He still stiffens and breathes harder when he feels Grantaire’s cock at the small of his back, but it’s not unmanageable, now that he expects it. Enjolras is able to make his breaths go deep instead of fast, and after a minute their bodies are fully pressed together.

He shifts a little, and it makes Grantaire give a low moan in his sleep, and after that Enjolras is completely still. 

“Mmm,” Grantaire says, half sigh and half sound, and he tucks his face into the nape of Enjolras’ neck. This touch is nice, no more than affectionate, and it helps Enjolras to relax. “Hey.” Grantaire’s voice is muzzy but pleased as he struggles awake. Enjolras shifts so he can look at him.

“Good morning, R,” he says, smiling when Grantaire smiles. Then, suddenly, Grantaire’s smile slips into a frown as he becomes aware of himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire gasps at once, trying to shift his hips away but finding that there isn’t enough space on the couch. He inhales sharply when the movement rubs his cock along Enjolras’ side, and then looks even more apologetic. Enjolras just twines his fingers with Grantaire’s and tugs to tighten his arm around him.

“It’s okay,” he assures Grantaire. “I’m okay. Do you want me to go to the other room, so you can— you know?” Grantaire shakes his head.

“It’ll be gone in a minute,” he explains. “And anyway, it seems rude to do it while you’re here.”

It strikes Enjolras that Grantaire would probably be thinking about him while he did it. Enjolras isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Grantaire’s right— he is completely soft again in a few minutes. Then, and only then, can Enjolras work up the nerve to turn himself around so that they’re pressed front to front. Enjolras tries to remind Grantaire that he loves him through touch. He leans his forehead against Grantaire’s, and wraps his arms around him, and allows their legs to tangle, just a little. 

“I love you, too,” Grantaire says. His eyes dart to Enjolras’, and then he leans in slowly for their second kiss.

———

“I’m going to try."

———

It’s cold and Grantaire’s hand is warm on Enjolras’. The yellow glow of the sodium lights filters delicately through their matching clouds of breath. Their conversation died away a couple of blocks ago, but they aren’t mourning the loss. There’s enough to see, and hear, and feel, here on the quiet snowy street, without adding their voices.

As they reach the steps to Enjolras’ building, Grantaire’s fingers loosen in a prelude to their goodbyes. Enjolras tightens his grip and strokes warm friction over cold skin.

“Enjolras?”

“Come in?” Enjolras encourages. He knows what it looks like he’s suggesting, and he knows why he’s never suggested it before, but now he thinks he should. Now, he wants to, in a way that overwhelms his other concern— at least for the moment. He doesn’t know if his resolve will last, but he hopes it will. He wants to give this to Grantaire.

Grantaire looks a little stunned, but he follows Enjolras up the steps and through his door. It’s not until they’re inside Enjolras’ flat that he finds his voice.

“You know it’s a myth, right? That sex is a biological need. You don’t have to do this for me.”

Enjolras wants to say that it can still be an emotional need, but he realizes that if he says the word ‘need’ at all, Grantaire will think that’s the only reason he’s doing it. “Can I do it for me?” he asks instead.

“Enjolras, you can barely talk about sex, and now you want to—“ Grantaire trails off with a vague hand motion, as though he doesn’t know how to talk about Enjolras and sex in a positive context. His brows are drawn together, and his voice sounds pained. Enjolras immediately backs off a little; he doesn’t ever want Grantaire to feel uncertain to the point of anguish.

“I think I can, and I want to try it with you.”

“What if—“

“I trust you.” Enjolras pauses, thinks for a moment. Tries to arrange his thoughts into words that Grantaire will understand. “If I say stop—“

“I’ll stop right away, I promise, don’t worry—“

“Exactly,” says Enjolras with a smile. He reaches a hand out to reclaim Grantaire’s, and his smile widens when Grantaire moves toward him in response. They come in close together, and Enjolras’ expression softens into something tender as their mouths meet. “Let’s go to bed,” he breathes against Grantaire’s mouth.

There are butterflies in his stomach, but they don’t matter. They’re throwing themselves like moths into the flame of this feeling between him and Grantaire— this love. It feels bright and soft, comfortable now that infatuation has worn down to something smoother and more real.

When Enjolras finally gets Grantaire lying down on his bed, he lays down beside him and they kiss for a long while. Grantaire is a good, experienced kisser, and he knows exactly how to press Enjolras’ buttons without devolving to the wet-and-messy kind of kissing. Their bodies are taut, but they’re only touching in a few places— hands, knees, mouths— because Enjolras needs to work up to this.

After a while, he does. They reach arms around each other, they move close enough to touch front to front with intent. The kisses get a little deeper, but they stay clean and skillful. 

Then their clothes come off, and they touch again, this time skin to skin. 

Enjolras is aroused— one of the first times he has been since the event— but it doesn’t feel overpowering and burning like he remembers from that day. It feels like a warm, pleasant weight low in his belly, like something dormant waking inside him from a long rest, like being hungry again after the flu. Grantaire is aroused, too, but that’s easier.

The sex is slow, and patient, and warm rather than hot. It feels pleasurable, but not overwhelming. It’s lovemaking, pure and simple, a physical extension of the feelings within.

When Enjolras comes, he feels like something tight inside him is unwinding.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras was hit with sexpollen (pre-story) and ended up having mutually noncon sex with a number of people (none of them are characters). Things that trigger memories of this incident can cause him to have panic attacks, which are not terribly graphic. The incident itself is even less graphic. Apparently I'm allergic to details. Update: I'm adding a mention of mild self-harm, because there are a couple of things Enjolras does that cause short-term pain but no real damage.
> 
> If there's something you think I should mention here, please let me know!


End file.
